


Bissa Vipera

by Chiclet



Category: The Secret World
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-26
Updated: 2016-08-26
Packaged: 2018-08-11 02:40:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7872823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chiclet/pseuds/Chiclet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Manducare Aut Edetur - Eat or Be Eaten</p><p>a few small fics centering on an agent of the All Seeing Eye.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Impact

“You use a sledgehammer?” 

The tone is faintly unbelieving. He eyes me from an easy dozen strides away, taking in the grey suit with its crisply rolled up cuffs, the sweetly pressed crease on the pants, the sensible matching shoes. His gaze lingers at the tasteful gold chain at my throat before falling almost guiltily to the slightly daring midriff top I chose to pair the ensemble with today. There’s no point, after all, of being too much a slave to the expected.

I wonder if he sees what I precisely what I wish him to see, if my outward projection has held through the somewhat unexpected exertions of the afternoon. Fit, healthy, not too tall, not too short, somewhat delicate of bone, at least outwardly. The artful tousle of hair in waves that can hold up to a little damage without coming apart entirely. The tennis build, yes? With only the sleek knob of bone at my wrists to speak of anything else, the suit jacket hiding all else with its relaxed fit.

Well, and the hammer. No child’s toy, this. A quite generous three feet of handle, roughened at the pivot, the heavy weight of the head a familiar drag near my hip. It’s an odd weapon, certainly, more suited to a man a foot greater than myself with burly arms, chapped lips, a plaid shirt meant for rough weather and a rougher accent to match. 

You see, it’s all about control. Momentum. Conservation of the laws of motion and energy; that which is at rest wishes to stay at rest. You remember, don’t you? They teach that everywhere. That which is in motion wishes to stay in motion. 

A hammer is a weapon without pretence of apology. A hammer, once started, does not want to stop. In fact, it cannot stop. Each vector, each arc, each translation of intent is a negotiation between muscle, brain and gravity. Maximum impact, maximum damage, the whole thing a dance that once started, has no desire to stop. I have no desire to stop. I will take this to the very top and impact… impact I will have. 

He’s still staring at me from the safety of his cheap synthetic jacket, cheap jeans, cheap thoughts. I shrug, inspecting a cuff for a moment for any dirt that might have smudged the colour unacceptably.

“Why, yes. I do like something solid to hold, you know.”


	2. Afternoon Tea

“C'mon big boy, show me what you _really_ got!”

The problem is, it’s got more than me. Way, way more than me. It fills the horizon like a malevolent wall, rising up in a shuddering wave and I'm so close we're nearly waltzing. Broken scales and sloughing skin, writhing gray flesh full of things crawling in the folds; things that I’m trying hard not to recognize. There's too many eyes, too many slithering tentacles with slime dripping madness into the waters and over everything the rank, fetid stench of long rotted death.

Does it understand english? Because this time I barely have time to see it coming at all. Frantically throw myself to the side as it snakes up like a mountain, faster than something that big should be able to think, let alone move and three tons of alien imperative comes down way too damned close, swamping the water around us in a foul tsunami.

I’m spun away in a tumble, spitting swamp and muck and things I definitely don’t want to think about. Grope around desperately in the dark waters. Fuck. Fuck. An aeon later my cramped fingers close again around the grip.

I am not going to be anyone’s.. any _thing’s_ afternoon brunch, no matter how big it is. Just. Not. Happening. Flip the sodden mass of hair out of my eyes for the umpteenth time, staggering to my feet even as I drag the weapon back up to the surface with me.

If I get out of this in one piece, I’m getting a haircut. A pixie bob. Something cute and terribly, utterly short.

“That it?!”

“ _Cuidado_ , niña!”  He flashes in from the side, brushing past me like he’s not even winded, the steel machete a black streaked extension of his arm. "Go _faster_ ," he growls, “or we're all dead.”

There’s no time to spit anything back. He connects with something, a spinning move, two handed and faster than I can track and there’s yet more blood in the water then, another ounce of flesh carved away. Out of nowhere it occurs to me that if we’re going to paper cut this thing to death, somebody should probably dial out for pizza.

It screams but I’m not even sure what it felt, I’m not even sure it can feel. It doesn’t seem to care, of course. It still wants me, swinging its massive head around, it doesn’t care about the other mewling things in the water. I’m the one it wants, the one that it needs, I’ve made damned sure of it.  At least how to piss something off is one lesson well learned.

A heart blink and twenty feet away now, his hand rises towards me, palm out. He’s right under it, almost completely obscured by the heavy shadow. I can’t see his face and I have no time to decide if I’m grateful for that or not.

Copper and offal, the sudden heat grabs me by the throat and I gag. The arcing magic squirms over my skin like an unwelcome lover, washing my vision to red; greasy and slick and sly. It crawls under my uniform like a thousand angry centipedes.

Blood magic, blood mage, rough and impatient as they almost always are. It's what they do, it's who they are, masters of stealing life to bind to other purposes, everything bleeding out with the pain and ichor. This time it's vectored transfusion to heal my wounds, ease the blossoming flower bruises, drain away the lactic acid in muscles straining to keep dodging and out of the way in this one-sided chase. He’s no doubt siphoning some off for himself, the sanctimonious bastard.

I hate blood mages the most. It's like paying for sex - you get what you need, all right, but it feels like you have to scrub everything with a wire brush afterwards. But energy rises even as the taste of foul metal recedes, things knitting back together inside me fast and sweet. I need it; just as he needs me if we’re all going to get through this nightmare.

Standing hock deep in void and mire, I have a sudden overwhelming wish to be back in the nice, safe classroom with Steven's cultured tones; his gray on gray suit and cool hazel eyes, the trim goatee and fine kid leather gloves.  The image is so strong I can almost smell the lilacs under the window, almost see the warm wood of the study walls rising around me. Back when everything was so nice and clean and theoretical.

He'd definitely never have gotten himself trapped like this, slogging it out in some screwed up, phased out reality, partnered up at head office with some inner city punk who probably cribbed his first spell book from his cracked out grandma. The others aren’t much better; some chick with identity issues and a pair of guns to her limp credit and her wisecracking boyfriend or brother or familiar or whatever the hell he is.

Take it, darling. Use it, save the bitchy mood for later. Work with what you've got, not what you wish you had. Every tool has a use.

Right on cue it screams as it finds me again and it lumbers forward, one baleful eye out of dozens spearing me where I stand. Six tons of elder godlet if it weighs a pound and we apparently weren’t invited to the tea party.

Bring up the hammer and set myself, borrowed strength making it seem easy. Paper cuts could work.

“C’mon, big boy!” I shout, just in case it does understand. _“Bring it!”_


	3. Tentación

I hate myself every time he touches me.

He hasn’t, yet. Take another sip of the dry white while I watch him ignore me. The gun is in pieces now on the coffee table, his hands methodically stripping the segments to clean them with a rag he always produces from somewhere. The slim bottle of oil is already leaving a smear on the exquisite polish. He doesn’t care, of course, that the table he’s working on has more zeroes attached to it than his last payout; the intricate amboyna burlwood smuggled in from the dirty market of an impoverished country, the intricate carvings on the legs created by craftsmen of a dying art. All he cares about is that it’s flat.

Turn my gaze to the window so I can stop staring and tap the glass to my lips instead, savoring the crisp smell. This high up the view is just spectacular with the darkening blue of the sky reflecting in the pool, merging them both into a single slice of heaven. The warm water takes up most of the cantilevered balcony, the slide of sunset sparking dull flares in the chrome railings. A few elegant deck chairs ready for lounging and the thrusting spikes of the skyscrapers across the river complete and frame the picture. Somewhere out there no doubt there’s a man with a telephoto lens, looking for something interesting to shoot through all this glass.

The gold chain with its single charm chooses that moment to wink at me and I find myself idly inspecting it, turning my ankle to make it flash again. Rich, but not ostentatious, like everything else here. It’s about keeping up intended appearances, of course. It wouldn’t do to give the wrong impression; getting my picture taken at parties for the morning gossip rags, purchasing expensive cars and wrecking them, spending my evenings dating dried up old men or leading the hungry young boys around or both. Just another bubble-headed heiress with more cash than sense, let’s all have a yawn about it.

Not that I would object to playing the part if it brought me what I needed. But no, everything in the apartment is arranged for a purpose, displayed meticulously for a reason. That includes the street address of this particular building with the terribly expensive coffee table he’s using like a cardboard box, the ever so tasteful artwork on the walls that would never dare to clash with the muted pattern of the designer sofa I’m sitting on. Everything, right on down to the pencil skirt and tight waisted suit jacket in a charcoal gray chosen specifically to set off the colour of my hair - the thousand and one touches that proclaim in a quiet, superior tone that I am untouchable.

At what price, freedom? All the money I have can’t buy it. Well, have access to really, but as they say, horseshoes and hand grenades. For the moment the world continues to be my cherry picked oyster. But what’s that saying again? That the key to strategy is not to chose a path to victory, but to choose so that all paths lead to victory. There is no reason at all not to use everything I’ve been given; born with, earned or found.

Even him. Or perhaps especially him.

Not, of course, that he particularly cares.

The gun starts to go together faster than it came apart, the assembly swift and precise. The sounds are sharp enough to cut and I continue to stare at my ankle so I don’t have to watch his hands. He slides back the top of the pistol finally, letting it snap into place. He loads the magazine at the last and then the snub nose of it disappears beneath the coat. He shrugs his shoulders, no doubt to settle the weight. Underarm holster, as best I can tell.

“Why do you carry a gun if you don’t use it?” I wonder out loud.

He shrugs. “I like options.” He wipes his hands a few times on the rag before swiping it a few desultory times at the table. Apparently the effort is close enough and he disappears it and the little bottle somewhere into the shapeless khaki jacket. Cleaning the gun seems to be a downtime ritual, that much I’ve pieced together. I’ve never seen him use the thing at any rate.

“Pour me some more wine, darling?” I waggle the nearly empty glass at him. He snorts at that, leaning back then to stretch an arm over the back of my sofa’s twin, hitching a leg up to rest an ankle on his knee. Bare, of course, apparently socks are just not done these days. Picture of a soldier for hire at rest, cue the appropriate soundtrack. I’m sure there’s one out there for the occasion.

“Your arm broke, Prissy? Pour it yourself, I ain’t no cabana boy.”   
  
Purse my lips but swallow down the automatic retort because I realize I can’t meet his dark eyes properly. Oh, that won't do at all. Busy myself with bottle, pouring slowly and taking the time to nestle it precisely back into the ice bucket at a nice, breathable angle. He looks around with a noncommittal expression on his face as if he sits in million dollar penthouses like this every day of the week.

“Got anything real to drink around here while we’re waiting?” The tone at least is belligerent, asserting himself into the space. I wave my glass towards the back wall.

“Help yourself to the bar, sweet thing. I’m sure there’s something in there that wasn’t aged properly.”  
  
He swings himself up to check, the motion pulling his jacket open for a second and I’m treated to the line of his body in the tight shirt beneath it. Take another automatic swallow of wine to clear the unwanted taste from my mouth.

I cannot afford this distraction, because that’s what it is. Dangerous, thrilling, sick, distraction. When I choose to take a man to bed, it certainly won’t be him or anyone like him; not with his rough street bravado, the ragged magic he carves out of the world without any attempt at finesse or even control, certainly not with the anger he wields like the knife he so often prefers for all the things he’s never had the chance to have. When I choose, it will be somebody like Steven. Elegant. Refined. Eminently accommodating and chosen for the victory condition he’ll give me.

He's got a bottle in each hand, clearly unable to decide, when the discreet earpiece I’m wearing starts to buzz.

The conversation is short, a few choppy sentences with the essentials. When I look up again, he’s staring at me.

“You got it?” he asks.

Drain the wine in one sweetly slick rush, clicking the stem down on the table. Take a moment to adjust a cuff to precise alignment and stand. “But of course, darling, the Eye sees all. And almost on schedule. Shall we go meet the others?”   
  
He half shrugs, staring at his hands. One bottle thumps down and he spins the top open on the other. From the shape of the container I’m going to guess a single malt scotch. His throat bobs a few times before he pulls it away from his mouth, licking his lips. No culture. No class. Certainly no real prospects.   
  
But the close cropped buzz of his hair is like fur that just begs to be touched. His profile is clean and sharp as he starts to walk, snatching up the machete he’d leaned against the wall when we first came in. The dark tattoo riding high on his cheek is both exotic and frightening. All the possibilities of violence swirl around him like an aura I can barely see. Whatever lessons he was taught while I sat in my classrooms over my dutiful books, they include fast judgements and even faster reactions. Spilled blood just makes him stronger.   
  
I meet him at the door and I slide my fingers over his even as his hand reaches to engage the keypad.

“Ah, no, darling. Beauty before age.”

I hate myself every time he touches me. Because brushing past him into the private elevator, I’m the one that can’t help it.


	4. Guten Tag

I used to think that picking blood out from under my fingernails was the worst part of things. Bad enough to have to resort to petty violence but then to have to be all hands on with it? How gauche.

Then again, perhaps if I’d been better at straight up magic I could stand at a nice safe distance and fry my problems with a nice cauterising electrical strike like a good little girl. My cousin Claudine had certainly taken to that side of things like a duck to water, tossing around static shocks like she’d invented the things; at least until Steven had put a stop to that particular piece of flaunt. The little quarter sized scar on her palm where he’d grounded her is a lovely little reminder that teachers are always on the lookout for prime opportunities to engage with their students over an object lesson.

But no, no. My particular gifts turned out to be less esoteric and much more kinetic and immediate. I’m like some sort of neanderthal throwback only, you know, with nice lipstick and a killer wardrobe. I suppose it’s a small price to pay that sometimes I have to deal with a little cleanup.

Look at my nails critically one more time for any missed spots. I’ve gotten used to keeping them blunt and short at least, with a pretty little french manicure to make the best of a bad situation. The pale tips certainly make it easy to see if I’ve cleaned them properly between engagements. They seem passable for the moment and thankfully nothing has chipped this time which is a singular bright spot to this whole annoying week. I’ve been consoling myself with the knowledge that pretty Claudine wouldn’t last an hour out here.

Flip the small multitool closed and tuck its slim length back into my pocket where it makes a discreet line in the tailored fit. The late morning sun trickles down through the whispering trees, nearly masking the sound of the far away cries from the tunnel access as something dies or gets eaten or rises up or, let’s face it, all three at once. The bridge leading across the estuary to this forward base camp is littered with the broken bodies of those who tried to escape from the coast town and every so often, some of them keep trying to stick with that program. I guess you can’t blame them for trying. If I could keep going out of here, I know I would.

The rustling trees can’t mask the sound of chittering radios though, the terse conversations and occasionally barked orders as six or seven of them in loose uniform peel out to do heaven knows what, only the Eye knows where. I don’t know what it is but I’ve found there’s a certain odor to the military; something that’s carried like a stain in the folds of the camouflage patterns. A certain cologne made up of rubber coated wires snaking over trampled dirt and the flicker of digital displays, the musk of male intent maybe that has everything to do with the perception of domination and control, all lined up just like the cute little tents they’ve brought along for the occasion.  

This carved out circle of hard packed ground, barely more than a biouvac with pretensions, is some sort of joint venture between the Special Forces and the Department of Homeland Security, although how that particular pairing ended up in army bed together is beyond me. Personally, this seems a rather stupid place for a forward camp, placed as it is at the thinning edge of a spindly forest at the base of the foothills next to nearly nothing of interest; I’d have sent them where the Orochi are putting identification tags on things at the bridge leading to the mainland. Perhaps this is an example of discretion being the better part of valour? Who knows how these things get decided.    
  
Not my call, of course. I’ve just been taking advantage of it, since it’s here. Cleaning my nails, leaning on a set up table while I watch a few of them doing their morning calisthenics or punishment details or whatever it is that has a line of them doing push-ups on the ground. And let’s be honest, you’re not going to catch me complaining about the unexpected treat. There’s something atavistic about an exercising male; all that physical power with the overt flex of muscle, the slide of tanned flesh, the sheen to the skin with the tank tops they’re wearing moulding so very nicely to the attributes on display. The couple nearest to me keep looking out of the corner of their eyes too, which is gratifying. As a reward, I’ve made sure to stay in clear sight as incentive to the hormonal thrust and shove.

Interestingly enough the liaison between the two divisions is female and I’ve already forgotten her name which I guess says everything about how effective I think she’s going to be. Thankfully I’m not in this particular chain of command so I’ve already been out and back from scouting the local area this morning since nobody is going to pretend to give me orders. While I made a few bad moves that could have turned ugly, they didn’t and since nobody saw them, they didn’t actually happen. One hand clapping in the forest or whatever. I think Steven would have been proud of me on that last little piece of work too although it’s so hard to tell with the true elemental mages. I don’t think he’s ever really gotten over my lack of aptitude for the pure arts.    
  
The lovely red sweater I’m wearing covers a multitude of tiny splashback sins and with my nails clean and perhaps a bite of whatever passes for breakfast around here, I suppose I could be ready for the afternoon’s little projects. Kirsten’s chipper dispatches from headquarters have been getting a little pointed, which can only mean I’m doing a good job and I’ve got no intention of letting my progress slide.

Onwards and upwards, as they say.      
  
  



End file.
